Eric shakes his head as he opens the door to shoo me into the hallway. “Let me guess—you ran half-marathons every day just to get into her spandex?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?” he asks as we head for the stairs leading down to the historic lobby of the renovated warehouse where the Brooklyn Bruisers make their home.

“Oh, sure,” I recall. “Totally worth it. She was skinny, but man did she have stamina.” But I’m getting off topic. “This time I ran for me, though. Nobody will be able to outskate me. I’m fit and ready. They won’t be sorry they took this chance.”

Eric stops in the middle of the grand lobby, beneath the video screen showing highlights from last season. “That’s the problem. It’s your third season. They shouldn’t have to feel like they’re taking a chance. You’re not a rookie anymore.”

Well, ouch. “Yeah, no kidding. But things are already different.” I swipe open the door that leads to the practice facility.

“Tell me how,” he says as we enter the tunnel.

“I already told you my new rules.”

“Say it again,” he says. “Loudly. So the gods of hockey can hear you.”

Man, I love Eric, but I hate being treated like a kid brother. There’s no getting around it, though. He was this team’s first Bayer. It’s not his fault that he had to retire at the top of his game, after too many knee surgeries.

They picked me up that same season, so my nickname became Baby Bayer, and I can’t seem to shake it. I don’t enjoy the constant reminder that I was the second-choice Bayer.

Then again, my behavior last season helped the name stick.

This year will be different, though, because of these rules I made for myself. “No boozing,” I grumble. “No whoring.” Eric smirks. “And no scandals.”

“Good,” he says. “It’s a start. Although rules are what you make of them. And none of those three things is the real problem. It’s focus, Anton. And we both know it.”

“Yeah.” He’s right. But so am I, because the rules are meant to give some structure to my life. They’ll make me into a different man. A better man.

A man who can focus.

At the bottom of the tunnel, I swipe myself into the last secure door at the edge of the training complex. “I gotta suit up now.”

“Good thing,” he says cheerfully. “Have a great practice.”

“I will.” Seriously. I’ll never take this for granted again. Every time my ID card lets me through this door, I’ll say another hallelujah. “You’re still a shit cousin for making me sweat it, by the way.”

“Maybe.” He walks away laughing.

* * *

In the dressing room, I head for my locker. It’s right where it used to be, between Drake and Campeau. I’m so ready to buckle down and skate. And I won’t stop until we win the cup in June.